somewhere a clock is ticking
by a.lakewood
Summary: AU set after AHBL. After his headaches return, Sam decides Dean was right about needing some time off. But what, exactly, is causing the headaches? WINCEST.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: somewhere a clock is ticking [1/?]  
**Author**: alakewood  
**Warnings**: Spoilers for _AHBL_, but I'm kind of tweaking the end of that episode to better fit my storyline: Sam kills Jake before he has a chance to say anything about being sure that Sam was dead and the little heart-to-heart between Sam and Dean at the end of Part II didn't happen at all. In short, Sam doesn't know that he died and doesn't know that Dean sold his soul.  
**Rating**: PG for now.  
**Word** **Count**: ~1000  
**Summary**: AU set after _AHBL_; Sam decides that Dean was right – they should take a break to recuperate.  
**Disclaimer**: As always, I own nothing.

**oxoxo**

It had only been ten days since the Devil's Gate had opened. Ten days since Sam had narrowly escaped death; the blade of the knife Jake had shoved into his back mere millimeters from his spine, according to Dean.

They'd only been on one hunt since – tracked a bunch of omens to find a horde of demons (embodiments of the Seven Sins). He and Dean hadn't had much experience with demons outside of Meg and Yellow-Eyes, and a whole group of them at once was more than they'd bargained for. They'd still managed, but Dean's words from the night Dean had saved him echoed in his mind: _"You need to get your rest. We got time....Can't you just take care of yourself for a little bit?"_ Sam's response had been an adamant _No_, but as he stood in the shower stall, clutching at his head, praying for the pain to stop, he wished he'd listened to his brother.

He got the first headache a few hours after the first battle of what was sure to be many. Compared the one he was currently experiencing, the other would have been a godsend. The first was just a pressure behind his eyes, a throbbing in his temples – just as they'd been when he'd finally gotten used to the visions. But the one _now_ was like when they'd first started years ago – nearly incapacitating, white-hot pain. Blinding. But the visions never came. Three days, five headaches later, and not a single vision.

**oxo**

"Sam? You all right?" Dean nudged at Sam's elbow on the armrest with his own.

Sam took a deep, steadying breath and opened his eyes. "Yeah, Dean. Fine." The pain was starting to recede.

Dean's gaze lingered on Sam's blank face for longer than necessary, seemingly debating on whether or not an argument with Sam would actually be worth the effort. Dean sighed and turned his eyes back to the straight stretch of shimmering highway before them.

**oxo**

Still following the omens, tracking the demons the best they could, the path cut through Kansas three weeks after the gate opened. More than just the omens, there was some sort of inescapable magnetic pull that drew Sam and Dean back to Lawrence.

They were along a desolate, dark span of I70 when Sam was abruptly awoken from his restless sleep by the worst headache to date, accompanied by nausea so intense he had the car door open before Dean had even swerved onto the gravel shoulder.

The small, jagged rocks cut through his jeans as he collapsed to his knees, but the pain was dull compared to the tearing-pulling-burning in his head.

"Sam!" Dean was instantly by his brother's side, strong, sure hands faltering as they fell to Sam's shoulders attempting to soothe.

Sam lost track of the minutes as he retched and dry-heaved, but everything looked much more shadowed as he rocked back to sit on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"What's going on, Sam? And save the bullshit."

Sam spit, shook his head minutely. "I don't know. Headaches are back."

"The visions?"

Another shake. "No. No visions. Just the headaches." He sighed, knowing he had to be completely honest. "They're really bad, Dean."

Dean's laugh at that was short, frustrated. "You don't say." He helped Sam stand. "When did they start?"

"A couple of weeks ago." He paused. "And they've been getting worse."

Dean's jaw twitched as he stared down the empty highway and leaned back against the Impala.

"I should've listened to you when you said I should take some time but...I couldn't, then. With Jake and Yellow-Eyes still out there... And _now_. This is all my fault. I should've killed Jake when I had the chance and none of this would've happened."

"Yeah. Yellow-Eyes could've got it into _your_ head to open the Devil's Gate. He would've promised you _anything_ to get you to open that door for him. And you _know_ that there's no way I would've been able to kill you. So if this is the way it has to be...?"

**oxo**

The farmhouse Sam found had probably been beautiful in its day, but had become so rundown that it wasn't in much better shape than some of the condemned houses Sam and Dean had squatted in. It was a gray, rainy day when Dean had taken a brief tour of the grounds with the realtor, who was at a complete loss as to why they would choose such an eyesore when there were perfectly _safe_ houses inside the city limits. Dean had just told her that they preferred their privacy and that he was in search of a project, so the farmhouse would suit them just fine.

All the outbuildings would have to be torn down, doors and windows missing, roofs starting to collapse, walls barely standing. The land wasn't workable; grass only grew near the house, the rest of its seven acres barren and rutted. The scene mirrored the hopelessness Dean felt on the inside.

Sam was standing outside of the car, watching the realtor drive away, when Dean approached him. He didn't smile when he told Sam, "Welcome home."


	2. Chapter 2

Title: somewhere a clock is ticking [2/?]  
Author: alakewood  
Warnings: None.  
Rating: PG  
Word Count: ~900  
Summary: Dean contemplates domesticity, Sam gets another headache and Dean follows him outside where they share a companionable silence as the sun rises.  
Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing.

**oxoxo**

Dean couldn't remember the last time he and Sam had spent so much case-free time together. It definitely had to have been sometime when they were still kids. They hadn't been on a hunt in a good two weeks – and the mouse in the kitchen so didn't count.

The strangest thing about it, though, was that it actually didn't bother him as much as he thought it would. The fact that it was all to make sure that Sam was okay was part of it, but there was something else, too.

He sat across from Sam at the table in the kitchen, allowing himself to see what it could be like if they were ever to live a normal life. Granted, if they ever got to go down that road on a more than just trial basis, he kind of hoped that Sam would be settling down with a nice girl, not with him. Picking out dishes and bed linens and bath towels with Sam was awkward enough the first time and Dean didn't really want to repeat the experience.

Sam glanced up at Dean from the open newspaper before him and reached for his mug of coffee. "What?" he asked, slightly wary of his brother's stare.

"This isn't so bad," he admitted.

Sam took a drink and set the mug back down. "What's that?"

"This. Being...domestic. Normal, you know? It's kind of nice."

"Uh huh," was Sam's response, eyebrows slightly arched as he returned his gaze to the paper. "It's only been a couple of weeks, Dean."

"I know, but..." he trailed off, not knowing how he could explain to Sam how grateful he was for their break without giving away what he'd done.

**oxo**

They'd been in the house for a little over three weeks which was long enough for Dean to fix the leaky roof, the banister on the staircase leading to the second floor, and to recognize the difference between typical old-house-in-disrepair noises and the sounds of Sam getting out of bed with a headache and wandering around.

But Dean had always been a light sleeper, so regardless of if the noises were just because of the weather – be it hot and humid or dry and cool – making the floorboards in the hall creak and doors stick or pop open in the slightest breeze, every little sound the house made roused him from sleep.

The night had been uncomfortably warm and his sheets were twisted about his feet in a failed, half-asleep attempt to kick them to the foot of his bed. He was disentangling himself when he heard the noise that had awoken him once more. The low creaking seemed further away now, and he recognized it as the stairs.

Dean climbed out of bed, stretching as he padded into the hallway, pausing to poke his head into Sam's bedroom across the hall. But Sam wasn't there. Another headache, he was sure. Most nights, he'd find Sam in the kitchen nursing a tall glass of cold water; some nights, the headaches were bad enough to prompt Sam to opt for something a little stronger. It only happened a few times and Dean never said anything about it – Sam was a grown man and could deal with his pain however he saw fit. Anything to help him sleep because he was barely getting any at all and that meant Dean wasn't, either. If Sam was up, so was Dean; not that he'd ever let on to his brother that he could never fall back asleep unless he was certain that Sam was okay.

When Dean reached the bottom of the stairs, he had a clear view of Sam's hunched back through the screen door. He was perched on the top step at the edge of the porch in the darkness; the floodlight mounted atop the pole next to the garage didn't do much but illuminate a four- or five-foot wide hazy halo about itself in the dense fog.

The spring on the screen door squeaked when he opened it, and pulled it shut with a bang that was only a little muffled by multiple layers of paint. "Sorry," Dean apologized, dropping a hand to Sam's head, gently ruffling his brother's hair.

"It's okay," Sam said, voice sounding rough.

"How's your head?" he asked, letting his hand slide down to the nape of Sam's neck as he stepped down a stair, let the hand linger a moment longer than he normally would have, then let it fall to his side as he sat beside Sam.

"Better now. Just needed some air."

They sat, silently, side by side as morning crept upon them, the sky not visible, just the fog phasing through shades of blue to gray, the sunrise hidden. Eventually, the heat of the sun burned through the fog, slowly revealing the yard, then the field, then the hills beyond.

Dean was the first to break the quiet, knocking his knee against Sam's as he spoke. "I'm gonna go make breakfast. Come in whenever you're ready." He stood up and brushed off the seat of his shorts then headed for the front door. He paused as he opened the screen, glancing back at Sam.

"Yeah. I'll be in in a few," Sam said when he didn't hear the door slam shut.

Dean watched Sam a moment longer, then went inside, gently closing the screen door behind himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: somewhere a clock is ticking [3/?]  
Author: alakewood  
Warnings: None.  
Rating: PG  
Word Count: ~1000  
Summary: Sam helps Dean with a project, but isn't distracted from his condition for long.  
Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing.  
A/N: I'm not completely happy with this chapter, the main elements are there, but it needs some...refining. RL is super-sucky right now and my focus is all _What focus? Oooh, shiny!_. Distracted would be a gross understatement. So, here's this part, for now.

**oxoxo**

"You sure you're up to this?" Dean asked again, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist. They were in the process of repairing the small barn that stood a few hundred yards away from the house at the back of the property. He knew he was nagging; he couldn't help but worry about Sam, if he'd be struck with another of his incapacitating headaches.

"Yes, Dean," Sam replied with a roll of his eyes, squinting against the sunlight to see Dean's face. He was done letting the headaches get the better of him, they'd disrupted his life enough. So, now he was forcing himself out of the house to help Dean with this latest project. He'd been thankful for the distraction and the monotony of replacing the warped wooden boards of the hayloft floor surprisingly kept his mind off thinking about what was really going on with him.

They were sitting on a small patch of grass that had been just inside the shadow cast by the barn, sharing the last swallows out of the gallon of water they'd brought with them, taking a break from the heat of the afternoon. Dean stood. "So, you ready to get back to it?"

"Yeah." He noticed a slight throbbing just behind his eyes as he pushed himself up off the ground to stand beside his brother and assumed it was just the brightness of the sun. But he was struck with a sudden rush of vertigo when he stood straight and Dean was right there to steady him.

"Hey!" He couldn't keep the panic out of his voice, his heart missing a beat as Sam's eyelids fluttered and he started to fall.

But Sam caught himself, found his footing. "Sorry. Stood up too fast I think," was the quick lie, staring at his feet, unable to look Dean in the eye all the while.

"Sam?"

"I'm okay. Just stood up too fast," he repeated.

Dean moved into his brother's line of sight, feeling as though Sam wasn't quite telling the truth. "Sam."

"Really, Dean." He took off towards the barn and stalked up the stairs to the hayloft. His hammer lay abandoned beside the piles of nails and boards where he left it and he knelt down on the floor next to the edge of the hole he'd opened up. As he fitted another board into the empty space, he waited until he heard Dean start up the saw below him before he started working again. He easily fell back into his rhythm – place board, nail, nail, nail, nail, place board, nail, nail, nail, nail – and lost himself in the monotony once again.

Sam felt it before he saw it – the spatter of blood on the back of his hand. He touched the side of thumb to his nose, confirming his fear. His stomach twisted and sunk and he couldn't keep the thoughts he'd pushed into the back of his mind from slipping to the forefront, couldn't ignore them any longer. It didn't stop, the blood kept trickling from his nose in a thin rivulet. The headaches, the dizziness, the nosebleed? Sam wasn't a doctor, but he knew enough the at the symptoms he'd been experiencing pointed to something potentially serious, and it was something he wanted to face by himself before bringing Dean into it, just in case it was nothing more than dehydration or anemia, or a million other things. Still, in the back of his mind... With one hand pressed to his nose, the other gripping the banister, he carefully headed back down to the ground level of the barn.

Dean felt Sam's presence almost immediately and switched off the saw as he turned to face him. "Sam?" he asked, momentarily confused by his brother's appearance before he noticed the blood. "Shit, Sam, what happened?"

"I don't – I don't.." But the lightheadedness returned swiftly and stole his words, darkness taking him over as he fainted, Dean just barely fast enough to catch him as he fell.

**oxo**

Sam had come to in the front seat of the Impala. "D-dean?" he questioned weakly. The last thing he remembered was standing in the barn with Dean.

"Sam? _Jesus Christ_, Sammy. What the hell's going on?" He'd been kept in the dark long enough. He wanted - no, _needed_ - answers.

But Sam wasn't quite fully lucid. "I...I don't know. Where...?"

"I'm taking you to the hospital." It was the very last resort, but if Sam couldn't give him answers...

"What? We – we can't." But Sam was too tired to argue and knew he'd lose the argument anyway.

Dean supported more than half of Sam's weight as they walked into the hospital. He slowly helped Sam into a chair in the waiting room just off the nurses station in the emergency room. "Excuse me, but my brother needs a doctor." He went on to explain what he knew of the situation, but the nurse informed him that, because Sam wasn't currently experiencing any sort of life-threatening injuries, he wasn't a top priority. He was tempted to make up a story about Sam having some sort of highly contagious disease to get him immediate help, but, instead, took the clipboard the nurse handed him without another word.

Nearly two hours passed before a nurse approached them, apologizing for the wait, and Dean held his tongue again and tried to stay calm. Sam's nosebleed had long since stopped, as had the dizziness. When Sam stood to follow her, he didn't sway on his feet, as Dean had anticipated. "I'll be back, okay?"

Dean shook his head. "I'm coming with you."

Sam offered a wry smile. "I'm not five, Dean. You can wait here."

"But-"

"Please? I'm sure it's nothing."

He didn't believe Sam for a minute. Knew it was _something_. And he was terrified. "Sam." But Sam turned away and followed the nurse down the hall, leaving Dean to wait.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: somewhere a clock is ticking [4/?]  
Author: alakewood  
Warnings: None.  
Rating: PG  
Word count: ~780  
Summary: The ride back from the hospital is quiet and tense; Dean sees that the physical effects of what going on with Sam are more than just headaches and dizzy spells.  
Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing.

**oxoxo**

Sam didn't say a single word during the whole drive back from the hospital – maintained his silence even when Dean asked him direct questions. "So what did the doctor say? Do they know what it is?" Dean had tried to stay calm, but when Sam climbed out of the car and started for the house without even _looking_ at him...that was it. "Goddammit, Sam! Can't you _talk_ to me?"

"I'm tired, Dean. I'm just gonna go to bed."

It was still early evening and the sun hadn't quite begun to set, but there wasn't much for Dean to say. Even if there was, it'd be a one-sided conversation. So he followed Sam in after a few minutes and headed straight for the fridge and grabbed himself a beer. He paused in the kitchen, listening for any sound of movement from his brother upstairs, but the house was quiet. He took his beer and went out to the porch to get away from the oppressive humidity inside the house. Sitting at the top of the stairs as he and Sam had done the previous Saturday night as well, he made a mental note to install a swing or something, then his thoughts drifted back to Sam.

Drifted back to the deal that he'd made to bring his brother back from the dead. The crossroads demon said that Sam would be okay as long as Dean didn't try to get out of the deal and he _hadn't_. But Sam didn't seem okay. He'd been having the headaches for over a month, and now the dizzy spells and the bloody nose.

He finished his beer as the sun started to set and returned to the kitchen for another. He quickly threw together a couple of sandwiches and poured a glass of water for Sam then headed upstairs to feed his brother. Halfway up the stairs, though, he heard the distinct sound of retching. He rushed into the bathroom to find Sam clutching the bowl of the toilet, vomiting up nothing but liquid. "Sam? Hey." He set the sandwich and glass of water on the counter. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, he gently rubbed Sam's back, trying to force away his anxious terror at being kept in the dark about what was going on. "It's okay. You'll be okay," he whispered.

Sam spit a couple of times and leaned back on his knees to sit on his heels, resting his forehead against his arm as he took slow, deep breaths. Dean reached over Sam's head for the glass of water and handed it to his brother wordlessly. "Thanks," Sam said quietly.

"You're probably not gonna want to eat that sandwich, huh?"

"Not really."

"Maybe soup? Crackers?"

"This'll be fine for now," he said, holding up his glass.

"You sure?"

"Yeah." He pushed himself up off the floor, once again slightly wobbly on his feet.

Dean caught him by his bent elbow, surprised by the sharpness of the jut of bone. He knew that Sam hadn't exactly been exerting himself recently but the lack of muscle definition and the prominence of the bones beneath his skin seemed almost sudden. The extent of Sam's thinness was revealed as he pulled off his sweat-damp t-shirt and Dean could clearly see the ridges of Sam's spine and the shadowed gaps between his ribs. The hard edges disappeared in the dim lights of Sam's bedroom and were completely hidden from view when he pulled on another t-shirt. Dean reached out when Sam's back was turned on him, grasping his shoulder, wanting to feel for certain what his eyes didn't want to believe. The shape of Sam's scapula obvious beneath his palm, the fine curve of collar bone under his fingertips. Sam slouched under the weight of Dean's hand. "What's going on, Sam? Talk to me. _Please?_" Dean begged.

Sam slowly faced his brother, the dark circles under his eyes looking more like bruises under the slight shadow cast by his eyelashes. He shrugged a shoulder. "They don't know yet. They, um...did a few blood tests. I'll know the results within a week."

"That's it? That's all they did? Blood work?"

"There's not much else they _could_ do, Dean."

"X-rays, MRI's, CAT scans?"

"Those things aren't free, Dean."

"We'll get insurance, then. Really good insurance. You're gonna be okay, Sam."

Sam's eyes looked haunted when his gaze finally rose to meet Dean's. "Yeah."

Dean abruptly pulled his younger brother down to his chest in a hug and clung to him tightly. "You're gonna be okay, Sam," he repeated. "I'll make sure of it."


	5. Chapter 5

**Title**: somewhere a clock is ticking [5/?]  
**Author**: alakewood  
**Warnings**: None.  
**Rating**: PG  
**Word** **Count**: ~1100  
**Summary**: Part five of the series wherein Dean's protective-big-brother streak intensifies and prompts him to find a second job to pay for Sam's medical tests. And the boys spend another peaceful night on the porch.  
**Disclaimer**: As always, I own nothing.

**oxoxo**

It was still dark when, sweating, Dean awoke. He was half-tangled in the blanket with one arm thrown protectively over his sleeping brother. But their proximity was too much in the hot, still room, so Dean peeled off the blanket – the fine sheen of sweat along his spine evaporating almost immediately – and climbed out of the bed. He went to the window, opening it completely and hoping for a breeze, and stared out at the quarter-moon shining faintly through a break in the clouds. Dawn felt like a long way off.

The mattress springs squeaked as Sam rolled over. "Dean?" he called out weakly, barely awake.

"I'm here, Sammy," Dean said, quickly returning to Sam's side.

The first couple of nights it had been strange – they hadn't slept in the same bed since Sam was seven or eight. But being that close to Sam, hearing the familiar sounds he made as he slept, was a comfort Dean hadn't realized he'd missed. He climbed back into bed and curled himself around Sam's thin, sleep-warm form as his brother's breathing evened out, and whispered, "I'm right here," against Sam's hair.

**oxo**

When the results of Sam's blood tests came back inconclusive, Dean started looking for a second job to pay for the insurance that would cover Sam's impending medical bills. The doctor had recommended a couple of different tests that could help determine the exact cause of Sam's symptoms, but neither were cheap.

From midnight until seven AM, he found a job as the overnight security guard at a factory in a town fifteen minutes away – the pay was decent and it left him with half an hour to get to his full-time job at a garage a couple miles down the road from their house, just inside the city limits. But seven hours was a long time to spend alone with nothing but the company of his own thoughts which focused primarily on Sam.

After finishing his first week of working two jobs, all Dean wanted to do was go home and take a shower and a quick nap then drink a beer or two while sitting on the porch with his brother. Of course, that was assuming he finally get around to installing the porch swing and that Sam was having a good day.

As he slowly drove down the rutted dirt path that was their lane in the truck he'd acquired not long after landing his job as a mechanic – there was no way he'd be climbing into the Impala after working on car all day – he stopped mouthing the words to the Led Zeppelin song crackling through the speakers when he noticed that the Impala wasn't parked where he'd left it. The second thing he noticed was the swing hanging to the right of the door on the porch. As he pulled up alongside the Impala, Sam came out of the house, a glass of lemonade in his hand.

"Busy day, huh?" Dean asked, climbing the stairs.

Sam just shrugged a shoulder as he passed the sweating glass to Dean.

"How're you feeling?" He took a long drink from the glass and handed it back.

"Better than I have in weeks."

"That's great Sam."

"Yeah. Hopefully it lasts."

"Hopefully." There was no reason it shouldn't, Dean thought. No reason that Sam should be sick at all – Dean was the one with the expiration date, not Sam.

"You hungry?"

"Kinda. Figured I'd get in the shower and take a nap."

"You? Nap?" Sam eyed his brother skeptically.

Dean just bumped his elbow into Sam's ribs as he headed into the house. "Wake me up in a few hours if I haven't come down, all right?"

**oxo**

The sun was almost completely set, just a wash of red above the horizon, when Sam remembered that he was supposed to wake Dean up hours before. He'd just been so lost in thought, thinking about everything Dean had done for him lately, what he'd had to put up with. As much as they'd been through, as far apart as they'd been in the past...they'd never been as close as they'd been since the Devil's Gate had opened.

The screen door banged shut when he went in the house and he could hear movement in the kitchen. "Dean?"

"Here," was the muffled call.

Sam leaned against the door frame and watched as Dean slapped together a couple of sandwiches. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to talk with food in your mouth."

"Nope," Dean said around a mouthful of sandwich, grinning. "Want one?"

"Sure. But I've got it."

He grabbed a couple of beers out of the fridge. "I'll be outside."

"Be out in a few." He took his time putting together his sandwich, pouring another tall glass of lemonade, and cleaning up both his and Dean's mess.

"Sam! Hurry up and get out here!"

"Coming!" He flipped off the lights as he ambled out of the kitchen. "What?" he asked, pushing through the screen door.

"Look at that," Dean said, gesturing with a sandwich towards their field which was full of fireflies. "Haven't seen anything like that since we were kids."

"That summer we spent at Bobby's?"

"Yeah. The whole field flashing like...like the sky had fallen into the yard or something."

"Wow," Sam started, dropping onto the swing beside Dean. "That was-"

"Corny?"

"I was thinking more _poetic_."

"First time I've ever been accused of that."

Sam grinned. They stayed quiet for a long time, just watching the tiny dancing lights. "When I went into town earlier," he began, "I saw signs for the county fair..."

Dean nodded. He'd seen a flyer posted on a bulletin board at work.

"They've got this 'night of destruction' thing going on tomorrow night. I think it could be fun."

Dean took a long drink from his beer. "Think you'll be up to it?"

"I just need to get out of the damned house," he sighed.

"Okay, then. Yeah. Let's do it." It wasn't like he had a whole lot of time left to spend with Sam doing things as random as a _night of destruction_ at a county fair. Just over nine months. He had the off-hand thought that it took nine months to create a life and in the same amount of time, his would be over.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title**: somewhere a clock is ticking [6/?]  
**Author**: alakewood  
**Warnings**: Will be Wincest.  
**Rating**: PG  
**Word** **Count**: 1000  
**Summary**: Sam does end up getting out of the house for a while, but it's not quite the way he would've imagined – Dean finds him unconscious on his bedroom floor and calls 911, and it's become quite obvious that something is really wrong with Sam.  
**Disclaimer**: As always, I own nothing.

**oxoxo**

Dean woke slowly, started to roll over onto his back and suddenly stopped himself, not wanting to bump into his brother. Yawning, he leaned up on an elbow and peered over his shoulder – no Sam. A second glance of his surroundings explained his brother's absence. He wasn't in Sam's room, he was in his own. He flopped back onto his bed and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. The alarm clock on his nightstand showed 8:13, so, after lying there for a few minutes, he finally climbed out of bed and headed down to the kitchen to make breakfast.

He put on a pot of coffee then pulled the half-loaf of bread out of the breadbox on the counter, bacon and six eggs from the fridge, and got to work. Secretly, he really enjoyed the whole cooking aspect of sticking around one place for a while. He'd always been good at acquiring new skills, and it seemed that cooking wasn't exempt. His menu was short, but was slowly improving. Anything was better than a constant diet of greasy diner and microwaved gas station food.

Dean moved the eggs to the back burner, laid out the bacon on a paper towel on a plate, and dropped the toast in the toaster before stepping out into the hallway to see if he could hear Sam upstairs. Usually, the smell of freshly-brewing coffee would've had Sam seated at the kitchen table before Dean had put the bread in the toaster, but...no Sam. Again.

Dean peered back around the corner into the kitchen at the coffeemaker – he still had a few minutes. He took the stairs by twos, lightly rapping on Sam's ajar bedroom door with a knuckle, "Hey, Sammy," he began, pushing the door open, "you coming..." He trailed off as he caught sight of Sam in an awkward sprawl on the floor. "Sam? Sammy, _hey!_" He dropped to his knees next to his brother, gently rolled him onto his back.

Sam didn't respond, head lolling to the side as Dean turned him over.

Dean slipped a hand under Sam's neck and lifted his head. "Sammy? Sam, come on, man. Wake up." Smacked his cheek, shook him, let his free hand slide down Sam's arm to let his fingers curl around a bony wrist to feel a thready pulse. He carefully laid Sam back down on the floor and all but launched himself towards his brother's bed, knocking Sam's cell phone to the floor in his flailing attempt to grab it off the bedside table.

Dean dialed 9-1-1 even as he crawled across the floor to his brother's unconscious body, hunching over him, clutching Sam's cold hand as he told the operator what had happened.

**oxo**

Dean had ridden in the back of the ambulance with Sam to the hospital, silently watching as the EMT checked his brother's vitals and intently stared at the few monitors secured to the inside of the rig, occasionally scribbling onto a clipboard. When the ambulance backed up to the emergency entrance a few agonizingly long minutes later, Sam was quickly taken away by a doctor and a couple of orderlies, leaving Dean standing alone in the middle of the ER.

**oxo**

An hour later, a nurse approached Dean in the ER waiting room. "Mr. Winchester?" she asked, peering down at Dean over the papers she hugged to her chest and through the hair that fell across one of her eyes.

"Yeah," he said, sitting up straighter. "Is Sam-"

"Your brother is okay. He's awake now if you'd-"

"Yeah." He stood. "Yes, please."

An expression of disappointment briefly darkened her eyes and quirked her mouth, but she covered it with a smile as she turned. "Follow me."

Dean had interest in nothing but Sam. Barely even acknowledged the nurse's goodbye as she left him outside the door to Sam's room. He took a steadying breath before pushing the door open.

Sam was reclining back against the pillows propped behind him, the fluorescent lights making the skin on his face seem much too pale and stretched thin and exaggerating the dark circles beneath his eyes. He pulled the worn blue hospital blanket further up his chest as Dean's eyes slowly examined him, trying to hide anything else that might wordlessly argue his lies. "Hey," he said weakly.

"_Hey_?" Dean's voice cracked, a slight edge of hysteria pitching it just that much higher.

"What?"

"Sam...what- what happened? What's going on? What aren't you telling me?" He stood beside Sam's bed, shaking hands gripping the metal railing, too afraid to touch Sam.

Sam just closed his eyes and turned his face towards the window, the muscles in his throat visible as he swallowed thickly.

Dean poured water from the pitcher on the stand beside the bed into the empty plastic cup next to it and silently handed it to his brother.

"Thanks," Sam whispered, taking a sip. "I don't- don't know what's going on, Dean. Really."

"Then what do you _think_ is going on? I mean, you've gotta have some sort of theory on what's going on with...whatever it is that going on with you."

Sam just gave him a one-shouldered shrug. "I'm not a doctor, Dean. I don't know what's going on."

But he still wasn't meeting Dean's eye, so Dean moved his hand to Sam's arm, gripping him lightly just above his wrist. "Sam. Please."

Sam looked every bit the terrified little brother Dean remembered when Sam had first learned what their father _really_ did for work. "I don't know what's going on, Dean," he repeated, sounding broken and weary.

Dean's hand moved to cup the sharp jut of Sam's jaw and he pulled his brother's head to his chest, pressing his face against Sam's hair. "Whatever tests you need, I'll pay for. We'll find out what's wrong, Sam. I promise you."


	7. Chapter 7

**Title**: somewhere a clock is ticking [7/?]  
**Author**: alakewood  
**Warnings**: Very slight spoilers for _AHBL_, and minor Wincest (finally!).  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Word** **Count**: 970+  
**Summary**: Dean finally learns what's been going on with Sam, and that Sam had suspected it for some time.  
**Disclaimer**: As always, I own nothing.

**oxoxo**

Sam had been in and out of the hospital to see this doctor and have that test, to have blood taken and taken again. He'd gotten the last round of results the previous day, wouldn't allow Dean into the doctor's office with him, so Dean was left completely in the dark as to what Sam's condition was. The whole drive back from the hospital, Sam stayed quiet, just as he had been the last time he'd discussed his test results with his doctor. But Dean was tired, didn't force the issue – Sam was going through enough as it was. If he wanted to talk, he'd talk.

They'd returned home and Sam looked even paler than usual as he climbed out of the Impala, squinting into the bright afternoon sunlight as he peered over its roof at Dean. He looked as though he were about to say something, his mouth slightly open, tongue darting between parted lips to wet the lower. He closed his eyes and shook his head, and turned away from his brother to head into the house without a word.

And Dean watched him go. He briefly debated heading into the house after his brother, but he was tired of the silent treatment, was beginning to crave noise and socialization in a way he hadn't in a long damn time. All he needed was an hour, maybe two...

It was almost midnight when Dean stumbled out of Stu's, spitting out the piece of peppermint gum the blonde that had been hitting on him all night had shoved into his mouth – along with her tongue – when she'd forced herself on him as he'd come out of the bathroom. She didn't take his rejection well, slapping him and stalking away, all her girlfriends glaring at him as he returned to his stool at the bar to pay off his tab and leave.

Every window of the house was dark when he returned home, the front door open just as Sam had left it hours before. Dean didn't even bother trying to be quiet as he entered the front door – Sam had always been a heavy sleeper, his current medical condition (whatever it was) seeming to make even more difficult to wake – so he let the screen slam shut, tossed his keys on the low table beside the door and started kicking of his boots.

"Where have you been?" questioned Sam's voice from the darkness of the living room.

Dean started, his surprise nearly knocking him off balance as held a foot in one hand, tugging at his laces with the other. "Sam?"

The lamp beside the couch clicked on, illuminating the room with a dim glow. Sam sat at the end of the couch wrapped in an old quilt they'd picked up at a Salvation Army or a Goodwill or a garage sale. Some of the seams were frayed and the fabric faded, but it wasn't unlike the rest of their meager possessions. Sam pulled it tighter around his bony shoulders as he rose and crossed the scuffed wooden floor to stand before Dean. "Where have you been?" Sam asked again. "I've been waiting for you. I called your cell and it just kept going to voicemail."

"It was off."

"What if I...what if...?" He trailed off, eyes shining in the faint light.

It took a moment for Dean to understand what Sam couldn't say. He shook his head. "Sam-"

"Cancer," Sam interrupted abruptly. "It's cancer."

That hit Dean harder than a physical blow, felt like he'd gotten the wind knocked out of him. "What?"

"An inoperable brain tumor. It's why I've been sick, tired. It explains the headaches, the nosebleeds, the vertigo, the weight loss."

Dean reached for the wall, suddenly not trusting his legs to hold him up. "How long have you known?"

"The doctor just told me-"

"How long have you _suspected?_"

"Since the nosebleeds started."

The last of the oxygen in Dean's lungs left in a rush. "_Sam._"

The look on Dean's face – Sam had to wonder if that's how John's looked as Mary died; how his own looked as he witnessed Jess burning on the ceiling of their apartment. Was it the same expression Dean had worn as he'd watched Sam nearly die back in Cold Oak?

"I can't do this again," Dean whispered, haunted eyes not meeting Sam's, before stumbling towards the door.

"Dean?" Sam's heart faltered, shuddered, perhaps even stopped altogether. "Don't leave."

"God, Sam." Then Dean's arms were around him, and he felt small and safe. "I will _never_ leave you," he said against Sam's hair, clutching him to his chest.

Sam could feel the uncertain beat of his heart again as he took a shallow breath. "Then where are you going?"

Dean hesitantly let go of his brother and stepped away, looking only a little embarrassed by his uncharacteristic display of emotion. "To get some answers."

"Answers? Dean..." Suddenly, his need for Dean was so profound. They'd been denying it for so long, the twisted desire between them – it had begun so innocently, so subtly. But he couldn't ignore it anymore. He reached for the front of Dean's shirt and pulled him closer, leaning his head down to cover Dean's mouth with his own. Tasted whiskey and a hint of something minty on his tongue.

Dean stood stock-still for long, countless moments before his mouth started moving fervently against Sam's, tongues pressing and sliding, teeth knocking together.

The quilt fell to the floor, pooled around Sam's bare feet as Sam used both hands to tug Dean towards the stairs.

Dean caught a glimpse of the heat, the want, the need, the lust, in Sam's shadowed eyes and followed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Title**: somewhere a clock is ticking [8/?]  
**Author**: alakewood  
**Warnings**: Wincest. Spoilers for _AHBL._  
**Rating**: R  
**Word** **Count**: 1900+  
**Summary**: The boys get together only for Sam to discover that Dean's been hiding something from him, but Dean's unwilling to reveal what it is. They have a fight which prompts Dean to look into his deal.  
**Disclaimer**: As always, I own nothing.

**oxoxo**

Sam tugged, pulled Dean up the stairs and they tripped over their own feet, each others, as they hastily made their way into Dean's room. Sam frantically worked at the buttons on Dean's shirt, Dean's mouth covering his as they shuffled towards the unmade bed. Sam couldn't get his fingers to work, couldn't loose the buttons and, frustrated, tore the front of his brother's shirt open, buttons popping, flying, sent skittering over the rough wooden floors.

Dean's fingers wound and tangled in Sam's unwashed hair, held him still to kiss him how he wanted – slow, so slow, wanted to just live in the moment, nothing else but the two of them sharing the same breath in that room. But Sam's clumsy fingers slipped lower over the taut, muscled skin of his stomach, disappeared into the waistband of his jeans and, "Fuck," Dean breathed as Sam's cool fingers closed around his half-hard dick. Mouth hanging open, he could feel each of Sam's panted breaths on his tongue, could almost taste his brother's desperation and need.

"Please," Sam begged. "Dean, touch me."

Dean suddenly realized his arms were hanging limply at his sides, letting Sam take control, not wanting to push or pressure. "Sam."

Sam gripped Dean's arm at the wrist, guided his hand to his crotch, pressed his erection into Dean's palm and groaned. "_Dean._"

"Sam. God, Sammy." He shouldered out of his button-up and peeled out of his t-shirt, went to work on his jeans as Sam started stripping off his own clothes, everything left in a scattered heap near the foot of Dean's bed as they fell together to their knees on the mattress, sheets tangling about their legs. Dean was afraid to touch; Sam was all sharp planes and angles, bones jutting in ways they hadn't since Sam turned fifteen and grew five inches the following summer. He tried to be gentle, hands skimming over paper-thin skin, fingers trailing in the barest of caresses.

"Not gonna fucking _break_," Sam finally ground out, shoving Dean hard, making his brother land on his back on the mattress in a sprawl. Sam followed him down, showed Dean with his own hands how he wanted to be touched. "Please. Just want to feel you."

The tips of Dean's fingers traced fleeting designs over Sam's slim thighs, wound the pattern up over Sam's hips and lifted his brother onto his lap. He canted his pelvis forward, pressed his dick against Sam's, wrapped his arms around Sam's waist and sat back up, holding Sam against his chest as he sought his brother's mouth.

Sam moved against Dean, sharp little thrusts of his hips. He threaded his fingers through Dean's short hair to press Dean's hot, skillful mouth against his neck. Felt the scrape of teeth and the pinch of suction.

Dean flipped them over in a quick motion, pinning Sam to the mattress, and hovered over his brother's body, afraid to crush. He pushed Sam's damp hair from his forehead and kissed him slowly, dropping his head to fit in the hollow between Sam's shoulder and throat to press a kiss to Sam's whetted collar bone. He raised his face to Sam's once again, held his brother's gaze. "Why now, Sammy?"

Sam's hands skirred over the soft, hard-muscled flesh of Dean's back, up and down, fingers of his right hand finding the leather cord around Dean's neck and following it to where the amulet weighed it down between them. "Because I need you. Dean, I _need_ you." He dropped the amulet, slid his palm over Dean's jaw to cup his cheek in a much too tender way. Studied Dean with naked love in his eyes. "Everyone I have ever loved has died. Dad. Jess. And it's only a matter of time before I lose you, too. And I can't do it, Dean. I _won't._"

"I can't lose you, either, Sammy."

"Promise me you'll never leave."

"Sam." Dean broke his gaze. Couldn't look Sam in the eye when he couldn't lie to his brother, couldn't tell him the truth.

Sam stared at him, long and hard, feeling something heavy seeping out of that one word, weighing as oppressive as the humidity on his lungs. He pressed his hands against Dean's chest, but couldn't push Dean off of him. "What did you do, Dean?" he asked, voice a low, harsh whisper.

Dean didn't answer, just covered one of Sam's hands on his chest with his own. He shook his head. "Sammy."

_"What did you do?"_ Sam demanded, wrenching his hand free of his brother's and pushing himself up on shaky arms to press his back against the headboard of Dean's bed.

Dean slowly closed the distance between them, his hands going to Sam's head, smoothing down his mussed hair. Cautiously pressed his face into Sam's neck, whispering, "So sorry, Sammy."

And just like that, the fight in Sam was gone. He allowed himself to be coddled by his brother, leaned into the embrace, his fingers skimming over heated skin of Dean's back, grasping.

"You're not supposed to die," ghosted over Sam's ear, Dean's lips barely grazing the skin at his temple. "I'm not gonna lose you again."

"Again?" Sam questioned, tilting his head far enough to the side to look Dean in the eye. He instinctively knew whatever his brother was talking about had nothing to do with Stanford – Dean had had a choice then, and he'd been pretty clear about it. "What do you mean, _again?_ What did you _do_?" Wouldn't drop it this time. Couldn't. Sam felt as though he were hyperventilating.

"What I had to."

"Dean."

"I'm sorry, Sam."

That was apparently all Sam was going to get. Again, he gave Dean a shove and he moved, more of his own accord than by Sam's force. He climbed off the bed and stalked out of Dean's room and across the hall, moonlight filtering in from the window at the top of the stairs painting him in bright contrast, making the bruises blooming on his hips stand out starkly. Dean's view of his brother's marred skin was cut off when Sam slammed his bedroom door behind himself.

There was nothing Dean could do about Sam now, it was out of his hands. It was better that way anyhow, didn't know how he was going to explain his deal to Sam. And that brought up a whole other question. Dean reached for his abandoned clothes and hurriedly dressed. He paused briefly outside Sam's door, but couldn't hear anything, and crept quietly down the stairs. His boots were where he'd left them inside the door and he quickly pulled them on while standing, shoving the laces inside as he reached for his keys. Any attempt at sneaking out of the house was made moot by the rumble of the Impala's engine as the car roared to life, but Dean purposely chose to not think about what Sam's reaction would be to his leaving.

Dean steered the Impala down his gravel lane to the gravel county road it ran into and took a left, headed the opposite direction of the two-lane highway and towards the unfamiliar network of county access roads. He stopped at the first crossroads he came across, braking hard, tires throwing small rocks and stirring up dust. He fumbled his I.D. box out of the glove compartment and quickly got rid of all the things he didn't need before climbing out of the car to bury the box in the gravel.

He slowly rose from his knees, scanning the dark fields that surrounded him on all sides. He was alone, then he wasn't. Ten feet in front of him, illuminated by the Impala's headlights, stood the Crossroads Demon. Different, always different, always a new victim. The Colt shoved into the back of Dean's waistband stuck to his skin uncomfortably as though it could sense the evil, but Dean wanted to spare the girl's life if he was able.

"Dean Winchester," she said, eyes flashing crimson as she smiled, gaze raking up and down Dean's body. "Back so soon?"

"Don't play dumb with me, bitch. You know why I'm here."

The smile split blood-red lips into a spiteful grin. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sam! I'm talking about _Sam._ I was promised he'd be okay and he's _not._"

"You were promised no such thing. All your contract states is that you try to get out of your deal, Sam drops dead."

"I haven't tried getting out of _anything_ and he's _dying._ Explain to me how the deal I made allows that."

She sighed heavily as though Dean were a petulant child. "You remember Meg, right? Well, you know how the only reason she was still walking was because of that demon inside her?" She paused, and Dean wasn't sure if it was to actually let him think back to what had happened to Meg Masters the _girl_ or if was just to drive in her unspoken implication that he was more of an annoyance than anything. "Once the demon was gone, everything was broken. It's like that. See, there was a monster inside your brother's pretty little head. When he died, the monster went away. Now he's broken, too. You knew there would be consequences to bringing him back."

"For me, not him. Sam's supposed to be okay."

"You got your brother back, you've got your year," she told him, turning to face the moon, clasping her hands behind her back. "That was your deal. Now, if you want to discuss a _new_ one, we could make Sam the picture of perfect health..." She was in the midst of turning to face Dean once again when, with a shaky hand and iffy aim, Dean fired a shot at her head. He was done with deals.

He returned to the Impala, put the crossroads in his rearview as fast as he could, tires slipping on the gravel, and headed back home. There was nothing he could do but bide the rest of his time and pray that Sam would be okay, that the doctors were wrong. He would take the rest of his year and put it to good use, spend it with his brother. The first step would be telling Sam about the deal, about their limited time, and that was something Dean had never planned on doing. But, with Sam's condition, they had no time to waste.

So Dean pulled the Impala into it's place in the yard and went back into the house, not bothering to kick off his boots before climbing the stairs. He knocked lightly on Sam's door, short little taps with his knuckles. "Sam," he said, voice wavering with uncertainty making it not much more than a whisper. Dean cleared his throat and tried again. "Sammy?" he questioned, laying his hand on the cool brass knob. "We gotta talk. Can I come in?"

There was no response from the other side of the door and Dean panicked for the briefest second, throwing open the door only to reveal a peacefully sleeping Sam tangled in his sheets. Dean kicked out of his boots again, stripped out of his dusty clothes and climbed into bed behind Sam. He wasn't going to waste another minute with his brother.


	9. Chapter 9

**Title**: somewhere a clock is ticking [9/?]  
**Author**: alakewood  
**Warnings**: Wincest. Spoilers for _AHBL._  
**Rating**: R  
**Word** **Count**: 1700+  
**Summary**: Sam puts two and two together and realizes that Dean's made a deal and they, of course, get into an argument about it. Even though they've got no time to waste, it takes them a week before they finally make up.  
**Disclaimer**: As always, I own nothing.

**oxoxo**

Dean awoke slowly, first aware of the heat of the sun on his back then the warmth of Sam against his chest. He spooned his younger brother in a way that probably should've been awkward considering their slight height difference, but wasn't. Dean was comfortable, content. Then Sam shifted in his arms and spoke.

"You made a deal, didn't you? Like Dad." He didn't turn over, didn't wait for a confirmation, just kept his back to Dean and continued on. "How long'd you get?"

Dean pressed a kiss to Sam's bony shoulder. "Doesn't matter."

"The fuck it doesn't." He slipped from the loose embrace of Dean's arms and moved to sit at the edge of his mattress. "I'm dying, Dean. You might as well be, too, if you made a deal. So, yeah, it _does_ matter, because I'd like to know how much time we've got left together."

Dean was silent for a long stretch of moments before he finally sat up, shin grazing Sam's bare hip under the sheet and his whole body aching for more contact. "She gave me a year." He kept his gaze trained on his brother, watched as Sam went so still and Dean was certain he'd stopped breathing even as Dean could imagine the cogs in Sam's great big brain spinning. "I've got something like eight months left."

Sam shook his head, turned his body just enough to meet Dean's eyes. "I'm not gonna outlive you."

"That was the whole point of the deal, Sammy."

"No, I mean I'll probably be dead before then. I've got...maybe six months. Barring any sudden miracles."

It felt like all the air went out of the room, like Dean couldn't catch his breath. "Sammy." He reached a hand towards his brother.

"Don't."

"If anybody deserves a miracle, it's you. You believe in God and all that stuff – you've done so much good-"

"I wouldn't have done any of it if not for you, Dean. Ever since I can remember, all I've wanted was to be like you...You can't die, Dean. It'll be like everything we've done has been for nothing."

"Sam..." Dean moved closer, laid a hand on Sam's shoulder. "How many people have we saved, Sam? Even just you and me these past couple of years? That's not nothing."

"Then why are you giving up?"

"I'm not-"

"Yes, you are."

"Because I couldn't do it without you."

"And you though I _could_?"

"Sam-"

"No. I don't want to talk about this anymore." He threw back the sheet and pushed himself off the bed, angry purple bruises blooming like flowers on a vine across his hips where Dean's fingers had gripped too tight.

**oxo**

The tension between the two brothers evaporated with the humidity that hung heavy in the house in the the week that followed. Dean had just gotten off work at the garage, didn't have to work his night security shift, so he pulled a beer out of the fridge instead of the pitcher of lemonade, used the churchkey to pry the lid off. He took a long swig from the bottle, bracing himself with one hand against the chipped formica counter, trying not to think about how he wouldn't be able to use work as a buffer between himself and Sam with the holiday weekend.

"I used to pray that we'd find Yellow Eyes," Sam said from the doorway behind Dean. "It was all I asked for and we finally got the bastard. For us to find a way to save you, to get you out of this deal somehow...it's the only prayer I've got."

Dean set his bottle on the counter and turned to face Sam. "Sammy...if there _is_ a God, he's not gonna care about me. You should be praying for yourself." His feet carried him the short distance across the kitchen to his brother, grease-stained fingertips gently tracing up Sam's jaw to push his shaggy hair behind his ear as Dean pressed his palm against Sam's sunken cheek. "It's not fair that this is happening to you."

"When has life ever been fair to us, Dean?" Sam leaned into Dean's touch, buried his fingers in the worn fabric of Dean's work-shirt and pulled himself closer.

The argument from the week before seemed to be forgotten or forgiven, or pushed to the back burner temporarily, and Dean was thankful for it, didn't know how, exactly, he was supposed to make it right when there was no way that Sam would ever see reason in his decision. "I'm sorry," Dean whispered against Sam's ear, pressing his lips to Sam's temple and wrapping his arms around his brother in a move that was somewhat chick-flick-moment material, but Dean knew Sam pulled comfort from his embrace just as he did from Sam's, even though it went unspoken.

Sam's breath ghosted over Dean's neck, sent goosebumps rising on his arms and chills down his spine. "I don't want to fight with you about this, but-"

"Then let's not fight." Dean turned his head, angled just so, and his mouth found Sam's. Without the dark to hide in, without the buzz of alcohol dampening the intensity of his feelings, Dean felt his love for Sam full-force. But he couldn't say the words, not yet. Could only show Sam how he felt. He backed Sam up against the cupboards and kissed him slowly, took his time, let his hands learn the curves and planes of Sam's body from this new vantage point.

Sam pressed up into Dean, a breathy half-sigh half-moan falling from his lips as Dean released his mouth. "Okay. No fighting. This. Let's do _this._"

"And, by 'this' you mean-"

Sam pressed the flat of his palm against where Dean's hard dick strained against the denim of his jeans, scraped his fingernails against the ridged material and watched the way it sent shivers throughout his brother. "Sex, Dean. Unless-"

"Uh, no. Sex is- sex is...yeah." His mouth closed over Sam's again, tongues meeting and sliding slick as Sam's hands worked to free him from his jeans, get his hand inside his boxer-briefs and wrap around his erection. "_Fuck_, Sammy."

Sam worked around Dean's arms as he undid the buttons of Dean's shirt and Dean tugged at the hem of the hoodie Sam wore and they briefly separated as Sam lost the sweatshirt and the tee underneath it, then Dean's hands were on the fly of his jeans and, soon, they were both naked in the kitchen, their clothes and Dean's boots scattered about their feet on the linoleum floor.

The sunlight that streamed through the windows over the sink made the angles of Sam's bones sharper, made him look even thinner than the lights in his bathroom had just a short time ago. Dean let his hands smooth over those places, could still feel muscle and sinew beneath him, against him, still felt the strength in Sam that his appearance belied. He turned Sam around so that Sam was facing the windows, the sunlight striking his face and erasing all the shadows from the hollows of his cheeks, beneath his eyes and he looked perfectly healthy. Three small words almost spilled from his mouth right there, but Dean stopped himself again, pressed a kiss to the side of Sam's neck, the knob where cervical vertebra became thoracic, slipped lower down Sam's spine until he was on his knees, mouth pressing lightly between the dimples above Sam's ass, smiled at Sam's gasp as Dean spread his cheeks and his tongue swept over his taut hole.

"Dean. Fuckin' A. _Christ._"

He worked Sam open with his tongue, added a finger, then another when Sam was ready for it and begging. Dean stood again, fingers still twisting in and out of Sam, gently scraped his teeth over the cord of muscle that stretched from Sam's shoulder to his neck. "How's that feel?"

"Good, Dean. Fuck, it's so good," Sam panted, arching his back and twisting his neck to catch Dean's mouth with his own. Dean added another finger and Sam moaned his name.

"You ready for me?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"It's gonna hurt. I'll go slow." He pulled his fingers from Sam's ass and lined his dick up with Sam's stretched hole, pressed in and pushed forward. "You're so- fuck, Sam, so tight."

"I can take it, come on. Just, fuck." He arched his back more, tried to force Dean deeper inside him, but Dean held his hips in a vice-like grip.

It felt like forever had passed before Dean found himself completely buried inside Sam and they were both sweating for the effort. And they stayed like that for a long moment, Dean feeling truly connected to Sam and Sam, for the first time in a long time, not feeling hollow.

The kitchen was silent save for the hum-tick of the old fridge, then Dean started moving and sounds and noises flowed from Sam's mouth, some words but mostly whimpers and grunts and half-moans.

Dean made noises of his own as he fucked Sam against the counter in their sunlight-filled kitchen on a Friday afternoon, but the only ones that hung in the air, the only ones they remembered when they'd both come, were both sated, and Sam had turned in Dean's arms to say them back: "I love you," Dean had whispered against Sam's neck, not because he was in the throes of passion, but because he really, truly meant it and couldn't talk himself out of actually saying it.

"Chick-flick moment, I know," Sam said, smile reaching his eyes and making his dimples come out, "but I love you, too."

And, suddenly, as Sam threaded his fingers through Dean's sweat-damp hair to pull their mouths together again, pressed slick bodies together, already recovered, half-hard dicks trapped between their hips, Dean felt the urgency, the fast passing of time as they hurtled towards two different endings, two different deaths. Whatever little time they had left, it would never be enough. He silently vowed to himself – to Sam – that he'd fix the mess they were in. Even with their dire situation weighing heavy on his heart, Dean forced a smile to his own lips and kissed Sam back.


	10. Chapter 10

**Title:** somewhere a clock is ticking [10/?]  
**Author:** alakewood  
**Warnings:** Wincest.  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Word Count:** ~1800  
**Summary:** A winter storm knocks out the power lines to the house and the boys set up camp before the fireplace. Sam has a rare burst of energy and he and Dean create their own heat.  
**Disclaimer:** As always, I own nothing.

**oxoxo**

Winter started much earlier than its scheduled date on the calendar. Temperatures dropped well below the norm for November and stayed frigid – like living in the Arctic. The ground was frozen and every bit of snow that fell from heavy, leaden skies stuck.

Days grew shorter and nights longer, and Sam started to sleep nearly all of his time away. The precise biological clock that he had once prided himself on seemed to have run out of power. He woke and slept at will unless Dean roused him.

The look on Dean's face as time passed – the permanent lines of worry and dark shadows of hopelessness – was worse than the constant, bone-deep lethargy and occasional incapacitating headaches Sam suffered. So he slept. It lessened the pain and his guilt. He felt like a burden, like this thing weighing Dean down and slowly smothering the life out of him. And, really, that wasn't too far from the truth. Dean had taken care of and protected Sam nearly all of his life and, now, because of Sam, he was going to die. But there was nothing Sam could to about it.

**oxo**

The week before Christmas, another front moved through bringing with it a nasty winter storm that not only knocked out the power lines to the house, but dropped three feet of snow in just under twenty-four hours in the process.

Dean put together what could best be described as a _nest_in front of the brick fireplace, the fire blazing hot and bright. Still, even with Sam bundled deep in every blanket Dean could find, he only stopped shivering when Dean crawled into his cocoon with him atop the mattress Dean had dragged off his bed and downstairs.

For three whole days, as the snow continued to fall and accumulate outside, they stayed curled up against and around each other, only leaving the warmth of their bed and the hearth for quick bathroom breaks and food.

Sam laid on his side, countless blankets wrapped around him until only his face was visible, and watched Dean heat a pan of soup over the fire. "Just like camping," Dean said, ladling chicken noodle soup into a large mug and handing it to Sam.

Sam sat up, wormed a hand out from the warmth of his blankets and took the mug, curling his freezing fingers around the low heat seeping into the ceramic. He blew on the steaming broth to cool it before taking his first sip, burning his tongue anyway.

Dean watched Sam from the other end of the mattress, blankets draped over his own shoulders as he took small drinks from the mug he held between his hands. It was obvious how much worse Sam had gotten in the past couple of months, how much more frail he'd become, with the thinness of his arms and the dark hollows beneath this eyes, his sunken cheeks and the sharp juts of his hips bones, the way his clothes and even _Dean's_hung from his frame far too loosely. Dean finished his mug and set on the brick surround, just outside the blackened wrought iron screen, and refilled Sam's mug with the last of the soup. He scooted nearer to his brother when Sam had emptied his mug for the second time and set his mug to the side as well.

Sam licked his lips and stretched out on the mattress, opened his blankets to allow Dean underneath, opened his mouth to allow Dean access when his brother leaned forward to kiss him. He licked the salty taste of chicken broth from Dean's mouth until all he could taste was _Dean._

Sam hadn't had the energy for this in a while and Dean had seemed content enough just to hold him while he slept and never pushed for anything more, but now, with Sam willing beneath him, Dean didn't hold back his desire or need. He hovered over Sam carefully, raised up on one elbow, his other hand trailing up and down Sam's body, thumb skimming over a nipple here, backs of his knuckles dragging over Sam's hard cock there.

"Please?" Sam begged, arching up against Dean's body, fingers tangled in Dean's shaggy hair, palm gliding over the scratchy stubble along Dean's jaw as Sam pulled him down for another heated kiss.

"Yeah, yeah. Okay, Sammy." He slid his steady hand over Sam's trembling body, over the ridges of his ribs, fingers slipping beneath the loose waistband of Sam's sweatpants and boxer-briefs. He pushed the fabric down, let Sam kick out of it the rest of the way while he rid himself of his own. Dean rolled onto his side, pulled Sam's knee up over his hip when they were chest to chest and sucked on two of his own fingers, slipping his hand behind Sam, pressing his slick fingers between the firm cheeks of Sam's ass to find his hole.

Sam's leg tensed over Dean's hip, pulled their lower bodies closer together, cocks rubbing slick, and he gasped into Dean's open mouth. "Oh fuck."

Dean worked one finger into his brother, slow, gentle pushes until he met no resistance and Sam was writhing back against his hand for more. He added a second, eventually a third, his mouth never leaving Sam's.

"I'm ready," Sam breathed against Dean's lips. "Please, I need you." He hitched his leg higher on Dean's side, opened himself wider to Dean's twisting fingers, and angled closer to Dean's leaking cock.

"Fuck, Sam," Dean groaned, withdrawing his fingers and rolling Sam onto his back, settling himself between Sam's spread thighs. He buried his face in Sam's neck as he reached down between their bodies to grip his dick and press himself against Sam's worked-open hole.

Sam tilted his hips up, slid his hands down Dean's sweat-damp, cotton-covered back beneath the layers of blankets to grip his ass and guide him where Sam needed him. "Oh, God."

Dean sunk into Sam with little difficulty, just the drag of skin on skin, mouth seeking out Sam's once their bodies were flush. "So good, Sammy," he whispered against his brother's mouth, tongue snaking out to trace Sam's chapped lower lip as he slowly pulled out, pushed back in, and started an unhurried rhythm.

Sam slipped his hands up under Dean's t-shirt, fingers splayed wide over his shoulder blades, holding him close as Dean's open mouth pressed hot and wet against his throat. "_Dean,_" he pleaded, desperation suddenly flooding through his veins on the heels of the love he felt for his brother. They were running so short on time, less than a year left, just a handful of months. He couldn't imagine not having this, not experiencing this ever again. He clutched Dean to his chest, sought his mouth frantically, fear and uncertainty filling his lungs and forcing his breath out in shallow gasps. "I love you."

Above him, Dean paused, hips stilling as he gazed down at his brother, flickering firelight causing shadows to dance across both their faces, illuminating the faint tear track that trailed from the corner of Sam's eye into his hairline. Dean pressed a kiss there and Sam squeezed his eyes shut, releasing fresh tears. Dean didn't have to ask to know the reason for Sam's silent distress, he felt the same fear, the same hopelessness. "Love you, too, Sammy," he said, pressing a kiss to Sam's ear before moving back to his mouth. He resumed his slow rhythm, clung to his brother.

Sam let Dean draw their lovemaking out until the fire was burning low, the room growing much too cool. "Dean, I need-" He angled his pelvis up so Dean glanced his prostrate when he slid deeper.

"I know, I know." Dean thrust faster, a little bit harder, just enough to push Sam over the edge, and he followed a minute later. He pressed a kiss to Sam's chilled, sweat-damp brow and helped Sam out of his shirt, used it to wipe both of them clean. He pulled on his abandoned sweats and underwear, handed Sam's to him, and tossed a couple more logs onto the fire before disappearing upstairs to find them clean t-shirts and a couple of hoodies to keep warm while the fire grew.

Sam lifted the edge of his blankets to let Dean crawl in beside him, kissed him slowly once he'd pulled the shirt on over his head, and again when he tugged on the hoodie Dean offered him. As soon as they were settled again, Dean's arms wrapped around him and their legs tangled together, Sam was asleep.

**oxo**

Sam startled awake hours later, fire in the hearth little more than embers, so he climbed from the warmth of the blankets to add more wood to the fire, prodded with an iron poker until the flames licked back to life, curling around the logs. The curtains were dimly lit like it could have been early morning, but Sam's internal clock no longer functioned properly so he wasn't sure. He watched Dean sleep for long moments as the logs caught in the fireplace and started to blaze and throw off heat again, wondered how Dean could've sacrificed himself so carelessly but, in the end, knew he would've done nothing less. That he _could_do no less.

He rose from the foot of the mattress, carefully tugged one of the blankets from their makeshift bed on the floor and wrapped it around his shoulders as he headed for the kitchen. There was a large drawer near the back door filled with various things Dean had taken from the Impala, including Sam's collection of fake ID's and badges. He selected one at random and a small tin box. After some digging, he found everything he needed, situated it all in the tin box, and headed for the front door. He pulled on Dean's leather jacket and stuffed his feet into his boots and ventured outside.

Sam thought about the doctor's appointment he had scheduled for Tuesday but he already knew what they would tell him, he could feel it in his bones. They would tell him the cancer had spread, that he didn't have as long as they'd initially thought. Cancer is a guessing game and every body reacts differently as the disease spreads, destroys. But Sam felt it, saw it when he looked in the mirror or into Dean's eyes.

He just wanted it to be done and over with. More than that, he wanted Dean to be okay. He braced himself against the biting, frigid wind as he slowly made his way down the porch steps. He had nothing left to lose – he was already dying – but maybe his soul could be work something.

The crossroads seemed like the only break he had.


	11. Chapter 11

**Title: ** somewhere a clock is ticking [11/?]  
**Author****:** alakewood  
**Warning: ** Wincest.  
**Rating:** Hard R  
**Word Count: ** ~1500  
**Summary:** Sam finds himself at a crossroads making a deal of his own.  
**Disclaimer:** As always, I own nothing.

**oxoxo**

As Sam stepped off the porch steps into the snow, the full force of the winter wind slammed into him as it whistled through the gap between the house and the garage. He fought for his breath and gripped Dean's jacket closer to his body, the small tin box biting into his ribs through the pocket lining. It was slow going, trudging through knee-deep snow – with even deeper drifts – and against the wind, but it only took him a handful of minutes to reach the place where their driveway and the small dirt lane that connected the barn with the barren pasture intersected. It wasn't a true crossroads, lacking the proper foliage in the four corners of the crossing, but he hoped the box and his intent would be enough.

Sam kicked at the snow until he reached gravel and dug at the stones with the heel of his boot until he'd shaken enough of them loose to bury the tin. He was shaking, sweaty, soaked with melted snow, and freezing by the time he drew back up to his full height.

Then he waited.

He turned to his left, saw nothing. Turned to his right – more nothing. Just snow, everywhere. Another sweep to the left and a voice caught on the wind that blustered at his back. He spun and came face to face with a smug-looking older man in a black suit.

"I can help you," the man told him, English accent slightly jarring in the middle of rural Kansas, "but not with what you're asking for."

Sam just gaped at him. He hadn't spoken a _word_ of what he wanted from the demon aloud.

"Name's Crowley." He walked around Sam until he stood over the spot where Sam had buried the tin box. "I can't undo your brother's deal, but I still have something to offer you."

"And what's that?" Sam shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of the jacket and crossed his arms to overlap the open front. He couldn't stop his teeth from chattering.

"A clean bill of health."

"What's the point of selling my soul to cure this goddamn cancer when Dean's still gonna be gone in a few month's time?"

"I'm not your average crossroads demon," Crowley said, stepping closer. "And it's not your soul I'm after."

"What, then?"

"Your word." The demon paused, hands hooked in the pockets of his tailored slacks. "There's going to come a time when someone asks you a question. You have to answer 'yes' to that question. That's all, and you're cancer-free." He watched Sam mull it over, dark eyes focused on Sam's face.

Sam knew demons lied, but he also knew they told the truth when it served their purpose. He couldn't be sure if Crowley was baiting him.

"I can throw in the peace of mind that you'll see your brother again one day." It was like he'd sensed Sam's complete apprehension.

Sam's toes had long since grown numb and his skin burned where the wind bit through the thin material of his sweats and where it curled under the collar of Dean's jacket. He needed to make a decision, fast. "How will I know who this _someone_ is?"

Crowley's smirk was slow and dark. "You'll know. Do we have a deal? You want to banish your cancer or what?"

Sam attempted to take a deep breath to steel his nerves, but the frigid air only made him gasp. He offered his hand and Crowley outright laughed at him.

"Nobody _shakes_ on it anymore, boy – it's too impersonal. My deals are sealed with a kiss." He took Sam's hand and tugged his shivering, frail body forward.

Sam stumbled into the man and Crowley's mouth crashed against his the same moment the wind suddenly gusted harder, picking up the fine powdered snow that cad been falling constantly since the blizzard passed and whipping it up in swirls. It blasted Sam like grains of sand and carried with it Dean's voice.

"Sam! _Sammy!_"

There was a searing pain in Sam's head, worse than any of the headaches, that lanced throughout his body, burned more than the sting of snow and cold. Just as suddenly, the pain faded away and the wind died down. And Crowley was gone.

Dean raced through the deep snow, boot laces flying, in nothing more than his ratty cotton sleep pants and an old hoodie of Sam's tossed over his t-shirt to stave off the bitter cold. "Sam!"

Entire body wracked with violent shivers, Sam turned towards his brother, squinting against the glare of snow as the sun briefly broke through the clouds, only to disappear once more.

"Jesus Christ, Sam, what the fuck's wrong with you?" Dean grabbed a hold of Sam's arm and tugged him back towards the house.

Sam glanced back to the center of the crossroads and was somewhat surprised to see that the snow wasn't disturbed except for where Sam had kicked it aside and recovered the hole he'd dug in the gravel. He allowed Dean to lead him back down the driveway and up the stairs of the porch.

Dean hesitated for the briefest moment in the open door and let his gaze sweep over the bleak, white landscape of their yard before pulling Sam inside.

Dean tossed a couple more logs into the fire and it took a couple moments in front of the fireplace before the heat of the flames seeped through Sam's layers and bled into his bones. Then Dean's hands were on him, shoving away his wet and semi-frozen clothes, exposing his cold, wind-burned flesh to the warmth of the fire. It felt like he was thawing out, each body part throbbing with agony as blood started flowing again under the hard rub of Dean's efficient, callused hands.

"What were you thinking, going out there?" Dean questioned harshly, kicking out of his pants and underwear before tugging off his hoodie and tee. He grabbed Sam then and manhandled him under the blankets, strong hands running up and down Sam's back and arms. "What were you doing?"

Sam shook his head, smelling the crispness of winter in his hair and on his skin, clutched at Dean even harder. "Nothing, I don't know."

"Fuck, Sam. You could've-" Dean broke off on a gasp, pressed his face into Sam's hair.

Sam turned his head, mouth brushing over Dean's. "I'm sorry. Dean, I'm _sorry._ I didn't-" He kissed Dean hard, teeth tugging at his bottom lip as he pulled away and pushed Dean onto his back and straddled his hips, blankets sliding off his shoulders and down his back.

Dean's hands grasped at Sam's thighs, slid over downy skin rough with goosebumps and still cold to the touch to palm the sharp edges of Sam's hip bones. He pulled Sam down against him even as he thrust upwards, let his hands slip around to Sam's back, fingers tripping up the knobs of his vertebrae. One hand threaded into the warm hair at Sam's nape while other curved around the back of Sam's neck to pull him back down into another kiss. "Don't leave me," Dean begged against his mouth. "Please don't leave me."

Sam reached a hand behind himself to grab the blankets he'd lost, the heat of the fire not quite keeping the chill of the room at bay, and tilted his pelvis back, the movement slotting his cock right against Dean's. "I'm not going anywhere, Dean, I promise."

Dean moved his left arm down to cross over Sam's lower back, holding their bodies as close as possible as Sam ground down against him. He kissed Sam slowly, kept whispering, "Don't leave, don't leave," when Sam broke away for breath or to attach his mouth to Dean's neck.

It wasn't long before Sam was coming hot and slick between them, Dean adding to the hot, slick mess a minute or two later. "I'll never leave you," he promised again, lips brushing softly against Dean's ear.

Dean held Sam even closer to himself heedless of the tackiness of their come making the skin of their stomachs stick. He buried his face in Sam's neck, determined to never forget a single moment of those past few months having Sam closer to him than he'd ever let anyone else. And it was all going to end.

Sam felt it when Dean's mind went back to that place that was beyond the two of them and the heat they'd built up beneath the covers. "Don't," he said. "Stay right here with me." He pressed his lips to Dean's and rolled them onto their sides, tangled their legs together.

Dean nodded but couldn't help but wonder which of them was going to go first – couldn't lose Sam and couldn't leave him behind. But it wasn't his decision to make – it was all left up to fate, now.


End file.
